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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26164087">snapshots from the year 1875</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayswithout/pseuds/dayswithout'>dayswithout</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>tu corazón gemelo del mío [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prestuplenie i nakazanie | Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, M/M, Slice of Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:41:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,883</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26164087</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayswithout/pseuds/dayswithout</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>a series of vignettes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov/Dmitri Prokofich Razumikhin, Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov/Avdotya Romanovna Raskolnikov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>tu corazón gemelo del mío [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881118</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>snapshots from the year 1875</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelthighsvoideyes/gifts">steelthighsvoideyes</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>January</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“We really need a bigger bed,” Razumikhin groans as Rodya’s elbow lands in his gut for the third time that night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not know where you think we are getting one of those,” Rodya says, somewhat archly. He sniffs and shifts carefully closer to Razumikhin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we can get your old bed into this room, we might shove them together,” Razumikhin muses. Rodya hums, burying his face in the crook of Razumikhin’s neck and sliding his fingers along the waist of Razumikhin’s trousers. His fingertips brush gently against the skin of Razumikhin’s stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Razumikhin shivers, rolling onto his back to allow Rodya more access. Rodya does not seem inclined to go any further or faster with his exploration, but Razumikhin’s body thrums with heat despite it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we could fit it through the door,” Rodya murmurs suddenly. “If we turned it sideways, it would fit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a long moment for Razumikhin’s brain to click back into gear, for him to realise that Rodya is talking about the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably,” he murmurs. Rodya’s wandering fingers dip a little deeper, traversing below the waistline and Razumikhin shudders. He knows Rodya is fully aware of exactly what he is doing, because he can feel the smile that is pressed into his neck. He tilts his head back, hoping that Rodya will get the message.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Needy,” Rodya whispers, but he follows it up with a kiss to Razumikhin’s jawline, so Razumikhin is not too sore about it. Besides, he has always been needy for Rodya. He just had not noticed before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chooses now to reposition himself, so that Rodya slips into the hollow created by his legs. For that, Rodya presses another kiss to the corner of Razumikhin’s jaw, followed up a nip of his teeth. Razumikhin hisses in satisfaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can see what you are doing,” Rodya mumbles. “It will not work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Razumikhin would beg to differ, because it is working quite nicely at the moment, even if he does say so himself. He sighs, breath hitching as Rodya bites gently at his earlobe and tugs. His hands come up to rest on Rodya’s hips, thumbs making circle motions against his hip bones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Rodya sighs, voice coming out low and gravelly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is nothing that Razumikhin loves more than this, the slow build, moving against one another in rhythm. A familiar heat spreads through him, ignites inside his bones, and he grips harder at Rodya’s hips. Rodya gasps and he knows he will likely have left bruises to find there in the morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cannot be particularly sorry for it, especially not when Rodya presses against him, a slow drag that forces a soft whine to escape Razumikhin’s lips. He knows Rodya has not missed it, hearing the huff of his laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In retaliation, he leans in and takes Rodya’s mouth for his own, nipping at his bottom lip and tugging. The hitch of Rodya’s breath is loud in the dark room. Razumikhin lifts his hips and rolls them over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Straight onto the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ow…” Rodya groans. “We definitely need a bigger bed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>February</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The early morning sun shines through the kitchen window as Dunya busies herself boiling water in the samovar. The house is quiet — Rodya and Mitya are still abed, and Dunya had left Sonya blinking her way awake with a promise of coming back with tea. The stone floor is cool beneath her bare feet and she hums as she works.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the window she sees a speckled bird land on their fence. Its head twitches around, looking for something. A moment later, a second one lands next to it. Dunya thinks for a moment about heading into Mitya’s study to see if she can dig out the book on the birds of Siberia he bought way back when they were first journeying out — and subsequently never used — but decides against it. She would have no idea where to start, for one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you looking at?” she hears said, sleepily, from behind her. Sonya has come down, evidently tired of waiting for her tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just about to bring it up,” Dunya tells her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not what I asked, but I will give you a pass, I suppose.” Sonya comes up behind her, sliding her arms around Dunya’s waist and resting her head against Dunya’s shoulder blades. Dunya leans back into her, her own hand coming up to grasp Sonya’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you falling asleep back there?” she asks amused, when she has not heard anything for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Sonya mumbles against her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do not sound so sure about that,” Dunya tells her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am,” Sonya protests. She pulls away and Dunya abruptly misses the warmth of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she is only pulling away to spin Dunya to face her. She loops an arm around Dunya’s waist and laces their fingers together with the other. She has a smile on her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would someone who is half asleep be able to do this?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, yes, demonstrably so,” Dunya starts to say, but she is interrupted by Sonya twirling her around in a circle, almost bumping into the table as they go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Dunya asks. It comes out too similar to a squawk for her liking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dancing!” Sonya tells her. She spins her again and this time, a burst of laughter escapes Dunya.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is no music,” she says, breathlessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how is that to stop us?” Sonya asks. There is a challenge in her eyes. “Maybe we shall just have to make our own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She starts humming lowly. A shiver wends its way up Dunya’s spine. She lets Sonya whirl her around the room a few times. In the sunlight, Sonya’s brown eyes are warm and welcoming — and just a bit hypnotic — and Dunya can think of no place she would rather be than right here, right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still with me?” Sonya asks, a laugh in her tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whenever am I not,” Dunya tries to shoot back, but her voice comes out disgustingly indulgent. Sonya softens, bringing them to a stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she says quietly, leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to Dunya’s lips. Dunya’s mouth opens on a sigh and she angles towards her, like a sunflower seeking light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside, the birds flit away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>March</b>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, Raskolnikov thinks nothing of the scratching noise he can hear. Most likely, he assumes, it is Galenka trapped in a cupboard and, since the cupboards do not have latches, she will be able to work her way out sooner rather than later. So, he does not move from his spot in the front room, curled into the corner of the sofa and reading a book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scratches continue, though, followed by what Raskolnikov could swear is a whine. Maybe Galenka is having more trouble getting out of a cupboard than he imagined. With a sigh, he puts down his book and goes to investigate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands for a moment in the hallway, trying to ascertain the exact provenance of the scratching noise. All has gone suddenly silent, so he is not immediately able to discover it. And then: another whine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is reasonably certain that the noises are coming from the kitchen where, strangely, the door is shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whine this time comes louder. It is definitely originating from the kitchen, so he strides forth and opens the door, expecting Galenka to shoot out between his feet, glad to be free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it is not Galenka making these noises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is a dog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raskolnikov does not know quite what to make of it. The dog sits there, very patiently, as if waiting for Raskolnikov to finish his assessment. It is a small dog, brown with white splotches and floppy ears. A scratch draws a line down its nose and Raskolnikov is almost sure it is missing a hind leg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you have met Pasha, I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mitya,” Raskolnikov says, not taking his eyes off the dog. “What is this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you,” Mitya comes to stand behind him, sliding an arm around Raskolnikov’s waist, as though that will soften him to the idea of a dog. Quite embarrassingly, Raskolnikov feels it may well do just that. “This is Pasha.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And where did Pasha come from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you see…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You picked up a stray dog.” Mitya pinches him, ever so lightly, on the hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is not as if you did any different with Galenka,” he says, pouting just a bit. Raskolnikov can feel his resolve weakening by the second, faced with Mitya on one side and Pasha’s mournful gaze on the other. “Besides, he is not a stray dog,” Mitya explains. He inches closer to Raskolnikov as he speaks, giving Raskolnikov the distinct impression that he is being played. “Ludmila Vasiliyevna was looking after him, since his owners abandoned him to go back to Aleksin. But she is getting old, so I said I would take him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rodya, you can see him!” Mitya cries. “How could I say no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raskolnikov feels something curl around his feet and looks down to see Galenka winding her way into the kitchen. She pauses and looks at Pasha, head tilted as though assessing the newcomer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pasha sits, still patient. Galenka inches forward, sniffing suspiciously, and Pasha lets her. Then, as if deciding that he has her permission to remain, Galenka turns and wanders over to her food. Pasha glances at her once, almost wanting to follow after her, but instead lies down, resting his head on his paws and gazing up at Raskolnikov.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Raskolnikov sighs. “Fine. It seems I have no choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will love him,” Mitya predicts, pressing a kiss to Raskolnikov’s cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raskolnikov has the sneaking suspicion that he may just be right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>April</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The pickles are missing. That is the first thing Sonya notices when she opens the cupboard at lunchtime. Where there was, not one day previously, a full jar of pickles, there now sits an empty jar, a trickle of juice in the bottom of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone has eaten her pickles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonya closes the cupboard, thinking. There are only three possible culprits to this crime and she knows that each and every one of them likes pickles, but does not love them as she does. So she cannot immediately discount anyone, which means she must do some investigating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her first stop is Mitya’s study. She knocks on the door to give whoever is in there plenty of warning before she enters (she has been burned too many times not to by now), and then pushes it open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today, it is only Mitya, sat at his desk and looking up as she enters. “Sonya,” he says with a smile. “What can I do for you?” He does not seem guilty, she thinks. But then again, that may mean very little. Rodya, she knows, would be eaten up on the inside over a crime — has been so — but she has never known whether Mitya would react the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A frown crinkles his brow and she realises she has been silent for too long. “You would not happen to know who has eaten my pickles?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your pickles?” he echoes in confusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says. “I had a full jar in the cupboard only yesterday and yet when I went to look today, it was empty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I certainly have not touched them,” Mitya tells her. “But I cannot speak for Rodya or Dunya.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And do you know where I can find them?” Mitya tilts his head, assessing her for something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe Dunya at least is out in the garden,” he says. “Rodya, I do not know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonya finds this eminently suspicious, the sign of a guilty conscience even. Why else would Rodya not be around, but for the realisation that he has wronged her?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” Mitya asks, concern apparent in his voice. “You seem to be…” he trails off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am just fine,” she says, smiling at him, although this does not appear to alleviate his unease. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to talk to Dunya.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By all means,” he murmurs, still confused, but she hardly hears him, striding from the room in search of her next suspect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She finds Dunya in the garden, as promised, weeding the flowerbeds. “Did you eat my pickles?” she asks. Dunya looks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why hello, my darling,” she says, dryly. “How lovely you look today! All that weeding has put such colour in your cheeks, you are positively glowing!” Sonya rolls her eyes, spotting a smile quirk at the corner of Dunya’s lips. She tugs her in close, pressing a kiss to that mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment — a long moment — later, she pulls back. Dunya’s pupils are gratifyingly blown and she is breathing heavily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why hello, my darling,” Sonya says. “How lovely you look today!” Dunya laughs and gives her a little push.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright,” she says. “No, I did not eat your pickles. But I think I know who did.” She tilts her head to indicate something behind Sonya and, when Sonya turns, she sees Rodya stood at the garden gate, a sheepish look on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in his hands, a large, full jar of pickles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>May</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Rodya is restless. This Razumikhin can tell. While Razumikhin tries — and </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying</span>
  </em>
  <span> is very much what he is doing — to read a book, he can see Rodya out of the corner of his eye, pacing back and forth across the room, sitting down and then leaping back to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is somewhat distracting to say the least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of Razumikhin wishes to put his book down and ask Rodya what is going on. The other part of him, the part that spots the brief glance Rodya gives him, thinks that that is exactly what he wants. And, thus, exactly what Razumikhin refuses to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pointedly, he turns a page in his book, although he could not say whether he had finished reading that page before doing so. Rodya sniffs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fighting to keep a smirk from twisting at his lips, Razumikhin continues. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If your abhorrence of </span>
  </em>
  <span>me</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he reads, </span>
  <em>
    <span>should make </span>
  </em>
  <span>my</span>
  <em>
    <span> assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rodya coughs and Razumikhin, almost involuntarily, looks up, before remembering that he is supposed to be ignoring the man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he could play this to his advantage, he thinks. “Are you quite well?” he asks, feigning concern. He knows Rodya is unlikely to admit to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> being well. He has form, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes,” Rodya waves a hand, reassuring him. “Just something in my throat.” This is a lie. Razumikhin knows it. Rodya knows it. And most of all, Rodya knows Razumikhin knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Razumikhin nods, as if accepting Rodya’s explanation, and turns back to his reading.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can almost feel the frustration radiating from the other side of the room, but he does not look up, does not give Rodya that satisfaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts as Rodya’s arms come to loop around his neck, not having heard him approach. A huff of laughter flutters across the nape of his neck and he tries (fails) not to shiver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem engrossed in your book, Mitya,” Rodya murmurs into the crook of his neck and shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed I am,” he says, fighting to keep his voice level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, do not let me keep you from it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rodya knows exactly what he is doing to Razumikhin right now, leaning over him to press his face into the sensitive skin behind his ear. Reflexively, Razumikhin’s head tilts to the side to give Rodya more access and his mouth opens on a sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has now well and truly lost this one, but he will not yet admit as such. He forces himself to focus back on the book, although the light touch of Rodya’s fingers across his collarbone, dipping under his shirt just briefly, makes it very difficult.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will only add,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he reads.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will only add</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh to hell with it,” he grumbles, closing the book and leaning to push it onto the table. “Come here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when Rodya does, he pulls him in close to kiss away his laughter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>June</b>
</p><p>
  <span>On a sunny day in early June, Dunya resolves that she is going to have a picnic, and that she will drag the rest of the household out to join her, even if it kills her. Well, maybe not if it kills her, but she will endeavour to make them come along in whatever way she can, within reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is a lovely day, blue sky, clouds scudding across the horizon — there is no reason for them to refuse. Dunya hums a little as she prepares the hamper, tucking away food and drink, and a blanket to sit on. Pasha nudges her leg, angling for some food of his own. “Come along, Pasha,” Dunya says, relenting and slipping him some cheese before heading towards the door. “Let us go on a picnic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rodya seems sceptical of the idea when she asks, although Sonya and Mitya are eager, leaving him no recourse but to tag along, however grumpily. Dunya loops an arm through Sonya’s and pulls her on ahead through the fields, with the men a little way behind talking to one another. Pasha runs back and forth between them, so full of energy that Dunya becomes exhausted just watching him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After about ten minutes’ walk, she looks around and deems them to be in an acceptable picnicking area. “Here,” she says with certainty. “We shall stop here.” She lays out the blanket and hamper with Mitya’s help, while Rodya holds back Pasha, who looks as if he wants nothing more than to bury his face in the hamper and eat everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we had best eat quickly before Pasha decides he has run out of patience,” Mitya says dryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And before the rain arrives,” Rodya says, nodding behind Dunya. She turns to see a bank of dark cloud on the horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to rain,” she says firmly. “I will not allow it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not sure whether that will stop it,” Rodya remarks, “but if you insist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, just eat your pickles, Rodya,” Dunya says, lobbing a jar towards him. Unfortunately, he has no choice but to let go of Pasha in order to catch it. Sonya and Mitya both dive for him, but miss, and Dunya finds herself knocked backwards with a lapful of dog, as he eats the food right out of her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Pasha,” she sighs. The dog in question looks up satisfied. He steps off her lap, landing one paw squarely in her stomach as he does so, leaving her momentarily breathless. And then he curls himself up to lie down, as if he had never been the source of any chaos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mitya, your dog is a nightmare,” Sonya says, brushing crumbs off her skirt and righting the various items Pasha knocked over in his bid for Dunya’s food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is it he only ever becomes ‘my dog’ when he has done something wrong?” Mitya cries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the same way Galenka becomes Rodya’s cat when she has,” Sonya tells him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” Rodya interjects. “Galenka has never done a thing wrong in her life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell that to the dead mice I keep finding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But do you not want those mice to be dead? We do not want an infestation, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This,” Dunya interrupts, “was supposed to be a nice picnic, and instead you are talking about dead mice! I cannot take you anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rodya opens his mouth to say something but, all of a sudden, the heavens open and they are in the middle of a deluge, cold water running down the backs of their necks and soaking them within seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not say it,” Dunya warns him, with a glare. “Do not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> about saying it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>July</b>
</p><p>
  <span>It is mid-July when Raskolnikov decides that he is going to repaint the house. It is not a massive undertaking, he thinks. Not a small one either, but still not massive. He can do it within a few weeks, for definite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He quickly learns that he cannot do it within a few weeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the first day, when his shoulders ache with the effort of reaching towards the ceiling, scant progress made, he realises he must recalculate. “Mitya,” he mumbles later that night, as they lie together in bed — their new, larger bed. “Mitya, my love…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If this is your prelude to asking me to help you redecorate,” Mitya says, rolling over and nosing into the crook of Raskolnikov’s neck. “I must politely decline.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are not busy,” Raskolnikov wheedles. “I know you just sent off your latest translation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet, I still find myself too occupied to help,” Mitya tells him. Raskolnikov pinches him in the side in retaliation. Mitya hisses and shifts to settle himself across Raskolnikov’s hips. He leans over Raskolnikov, hands either side of his head. “Did you expect it to be less work than this?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raskolnikov sticks his bottom lip out, slightly mulishly, he will admit. “No,” he insists. “But I thought you might be willing to help me.” He sniffs, turns his face away. “It seems I was wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Poor Rodya,” Mitya murmurs. He runs his hands up Raskolnikov’s sides and Raskolnikov shivers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet, you still will not help,” Raskolnikov tries to say but it comes out garbled as Mitya’s hands, and then his mouth, dip lower.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh well, he thinks. He can try to convince him tomorrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when the next day comes — and Raskolnikov will be the first to admit it does not come early — he makes his way downstairs to find that the walls of the front room have all been painted. Mitya stands to one side, swaying slightly on his feet, and Raskolnikov narrows his eyes at him. He knows Mitya has not slept, but right now he is a little too distracted by the fact that he has completed in only a few hours a task that might have taken Raskolnikov days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you said you were not going to help,” he says, suspiciously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did no such thing!” Mitya protests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I distinctly remember you saying that you were too busy,” Raskolnikov says dryly. “Do not try to pull the wool over my eyes.” Mitya sighs and rubs at his forehead, smearing white paint across it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then I felt kind of bad,” he admits quietly. It is not an admission Raskolnikov would get from him if he had slept at all, Raskolnikov knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you did not sleep and came down to do this instead?” he asks, just as quietly. “Mitya…” He steps in close and tugs Mitya into his arms. Mitya comes willingly, sighing and relaxing into Raskolnikov’s hold. “You know I am sending you straight to bed after this,” Raskolnikov tells him. He feels Mitya nod against him. “But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>grateful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just could not watch you struggle for as long as you would have,” Mitya mumbles, but it is a weak tease, all soft and serious. Then he yawns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, you,” Raskolnikov says, fondness leaking into his tone. “Time for bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘M going,” Mitya tells him, making no effort to move, not really. And Raskolnikov, with a predictability he could roll his eyes at, just lets him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>August</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The mid-afternoon sun lights up the kitchen as Sonya bakes, humming as she does so. Pasha lies at the door, eyes darting back and forth between Sonya’s hands and the floor, as if hoping that she will drop something on the floor. “Do not think I do not know what your game is,” she murmurs, pointing a flour-covered finger at him. His ears perk up, as if expecting her to feed him, but, when she does not, he whines and rests his head on his paws, staring up at her mournfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I see you,” she tells him. “I know exactly what you are doing and it will not work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you talking to the dog again?” Dunya asks from the doorway and Sonya starts, not having noticed her there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone in this house has to tell him the way of things,” she says. “The rest of you are too soft on him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, but how can you say that?” Dunya cries. She crouches down and rubs Pasha’s belly. Pasha rolls onto his back, tongue lolling. “How can she say that, Pasha?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very easily,” Sonya says, turning back to her baking. She is so engrossed in it that, once again, she does not hear Dunya approach. She jumps as Dunya slides her arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to Sonya’s neck before resting her chin on her shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you making?” she murmurs directly in Sonya’s ear. Sonya shivers, distracted from responding by the way Dunya’s tongue flicks at her lobe. Somehow, she knows that Dunya is smirking right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pastry,” she says, belatedly, remembering herself. Dunya’s soft laugh tickles her skin. She finds herself being spun around to face her, pushed up so she is half seated on the table, Dunya crowding between her legs. “I am baking,” she tries to protest, but even she can hear how weak it is. Dunya leans in and nips at her neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you?” she asks. “For it does not look it to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That,” Sonya says, gasping as Dunya shoves up her skirts and dips her hand along the crease of her hip. “That is because you are distracting me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are and you know it.” Dunya’s wandering fingers trail across her hips and she whines. “Dunya… stop teasing…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am hardly teasing.” Sonya shifts in an attempt to get Dunya to shift also. It works, in a sense, but only in that it induces Dunya’s hand to move entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunya…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you were baking,” Dunya says, mock seriously. “I would not want to distract you from that.” Sonya growls in frustration and is somewhat gratified to see Dunya’s composure the slightest bit shattered by it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Touch me,” she demands. “Touch me.” Dunya’s breath stutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not here,” she says, voice low and rough, a stark contrast to the teasing tone of a few moments before. “Upstairs.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You started it here,” Sonya complains, leaning in to steal a kiss, reluctant to wait even a moment for the feel of Dunya’s hands against her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you wish to risk my husband or brother walking in on us,” Dunya tells her. “Be my guest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Sonya says, swiftly brought back into the present. “You have a point.” She hops down off the table and grabs Dunya’s hand, starting to walk away. She stops at the tug on her arm. Dunya has not moved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you waiting for?” she asks. “Or did you start something you cannot finish?” That makes Dunya’s eyes spark, and Sonya has only a moment before Dunya is lunging her way. She lets out a shriek of a giggle and ducks, turning to race out of the kitchen and up the stairs, Dunya following all the way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>September</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The first Razumikhin notices of the kittens is a quiet mewling noise when he comes downstairs early one morning. He had woken up before the sun had even started to rise and, unable to get back to sleep, had extracted himself from Rodya’s octopus limbs to sit in the kitchen and drink tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks, initially, that he is hearing things. After all, there is no conceivable way that there could be kittens in the house. Galenka is not even pregnant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is, none had thought she was. But when Pasha goes sniffing into a corner by the stove, and comes back out with a whine, having been fended off with a hiss, Razumikhin realises he must revise that assumption.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because, curled up in a small nest made out of scraps of fabric that she has somehow dragged into place, is Galenka and four wriggling kittens. Razumikhin crouches down next to her, leaning in slightly and stroking between her ears. “What do we have here?” he murmurs. Pasha comes to sit by him, apparently not having learned from the first time attempting to investigate. But Galenka seems content to let him be now, instead pressing her head into Razumikhin’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kittens shift, nosing at Galenka’s stomach in their quest to find a teat. Not one of them is alike, and Razumikhin wonders just how many male cats there even are in the village. The ginger one, a larger kitten than the rest, butts at the tabby one, knocking it away from the teat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pasha takes the opportunity to lean in further, sniffing curiously. Razumikhin gently nudges him away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you looking at down there?” Dunya asks sleepily from the doorway. Razumikhin looks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the time since he found the kittens, the light of dawn has started seeping into the room. He had not realised quite so much time had passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kittens,” he says, belatedly answering Dunya’s question. “Galenka has had kittens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was not even aware she was pregnant,” Dunya says, coming to sit down beside him and resting her head on his shoulder. “I thought Rodya had been feeding her too much.” Razumikhin laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not know either,” he admits. “But here we are.” They lapse into a comfortable silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pasha seems taken with them,” Dunya remarks after a moment. She nods towards the dog where he has laid himself down, head resting on his paws, watching the kittens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Razumikhin murmurs. “Although Galenka is very protective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are keeping them, right?” Dunya says abruptly. “Only, I do not know who we would give them to and I do not like the other option.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Razumikhin says in surprise. “I would never have suggested otherwise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh good,” Dunya says with a yawn. She wriggles to rest her head more comfortably on Razumikhin’s shoulder. “Because the ginger one looks like a Rodion to me.” The kitten in question tilts towards them, mouth half open in its own yawn, as if half-listening. Something about the movement does seem very Rodya-esque, Razumikhin has to admit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he muses quietly. “I think I see it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>October</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonya’s fingers trail idly across Dunya’s hipbone, tracing a line of heat and making Dunya shudder. “Already?” Sonya asks in amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shut up,” Dunya says, but without any rancour. She is content and sated, lying on her back in bed with Sonya tucked against her, lips just about pressing to the hollow of her neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Sonya murmurs. “I like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, well if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> it,” Dunya starts. Sonya nips at her neck gently and Dunya tilts her head to the side to allow her more access.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonya does not take the bait. Dunya resists the urge to whine in disappointment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They lie there in silence for a long moment, the back and forth of Sonya’s hands on her skin making Dunya drowsy. It is late in the morning, but Dunya finds she cannot bring herself to care. There is nothing they need to be doing, so they might as well do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or something like that. It is entirely possible that she is a little intoxicated by the feel of Sonya next to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you thinking about?” Sonya whispers into her skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You,” Dunya says, unable to dissemble under the combined might of Sonya’s breath and Sonya’s hands. The woman in question hums contentedly, dragging her hand across the width of Dunya’s hips. Dunya sucks in a sharp breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thinking what about me?” Sonya asks. She sounds harmless, but Dunya can hear the playfulness at the edges of her tone, feels the anticipation building in her stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what,” Dunya tells her. She digs her heels into the mattress and tries to arch into the feel of Sonya’s fingertips but Sonya draws them away ever so slightly as she does. Dunya hisses in frustration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you should tell me anyway,” she says. Dunya opens her eyes — she had not quite realised they were closed — to glare at her. Sonya props herself up on one elbow and smirks. Her fingers drift upwards along Dunya’s skin, dipping along her collarbone and then back down, towards her navel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then they stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sonya.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Dunya does whine now, immeasurably desperate and wanting. Sonya takes pity on her, just briefly, leaning in to nose at her jaw and nip at her lower lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what to do,” she murmurs. That hand, that damnable hand, rests just in the hollow of Dunya’s hips, a hot, teasing presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunya does not want to give her this satisfaction, but a steady thrum is building in her, one that wants release, and she cannot hold out for much longer. “Your hands,” she forces out as said hands resume their descent, slowly, so unbelievably slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about them?” Sonya asks, a glint in her eyes. Dunya wriggles, again trying to get Sonya to move and again failing. She would respond to Sonya’s question, but for the fact that the ability to speak seems to have deserted her right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just— just touch me,” she gasps. “Please.” Sonya pauses for an indeterminable moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” she says eventually. “Since you asked so nicely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then her fingers are trailing down and down and something in Dunya relaxes as she arches to meet them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>November</b>
</p><p>
  <span>When Raskolnikov’s eyes open, at a round seven hundred hours, it is still mostly dark out. Of course, this is not at all unusual for November in Siberia. It is not at all unusual for most months in Siberia. In the dim twilight, he can scarcely see more than the arch of Mitya’s back, the gentle expansion and contraction of his ribcage. Some time in the night, Mitya has rolled onto his stomach, pulling Raskolnikov along with him, so that Raskolnikov is draped halfway over him, head tucked into the curve of his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Idly, Raskolnikov runs a hand down Mitya’s side, dislodging the covers. Mitya mumbles something in his sleep and tugs them back up again. He shifts, turning his head suddenly, and Raskolnikov has to roll away from him to avoid a collision. Mitya follows his body warmth, curling into him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raskolnikov’s heart quite literally seems to skip a beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is not as though how much he loves Mitya is anything new. It has, after all, been about a year since his epiphany. But sometimes, he will just look at him and wonder how it is possible for his heart to hold so much love for one man that he is almost overwhelmed with it. This, he realises, is what Sonya meant when she said he did not love </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>as he should a wife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mitya sighs, breath tickling Raskolnikov’s neck. Raskolnikov could get up, he knows — in fact, he probably should, since he has a list of tasks as long as his arm — but he does not move. Instead, he rearranges himself so that his arm loops around Mitya, tugging him ever closer, and lazily traces patterns across the breadth of his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door creaks. Raskolnikov turns to see a flash of ginger as the kitten, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> named Rodion, despite Dunya’s threats, slips into the room. Evidently, he had forgotten to properly close the door last night. The kitten scrambles up onto the bed, giving a loud yowl that belies his size. Raskolnikov scratches at the covers in an attempt to get his attention, but the kitten, as though he knows exactly what he is doing, ignores this and yowls again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning to you, too,” Mitya mumbles blearily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sorry he woke you,” Raskolnikov says, threading a hand through Mitya’s hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘S fine,” Mitya tells him. “I was mostly there anyway.” He reaches out and runs his fingertips over the back of Raskolnikov’s hand as it lies on his stomach. Raskolnikov tips his hand to the side, so that their fingers can meet, and lets Mitya press them together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought, once Mitya awoke, and definitely once the kitten had entered, that the quiet peace of the room might be shattered, but Mitya seems content just to lie there, hands touching, in no hurry to rise and face the day. Raskolnikov’s hand still drags across his back and he can almost feel Mitya growing drowsy against him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mostly awake, were you?” he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Halfway there, maybe,” Mitya admits. The kitten yowls again, apparently tired of waiting for them to pay him attention. “And being dragged more and more all the way with each minute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know how I might help,” Raskolnikov says, moving so that Mitya is forced to roll onto his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not in front of the children!” Mitya squawks, grabbing at Raskolnikov’s arms. The kitten makes a break for it, with a yelp, as Raskolnikov leans in and takes Mitya’s lips with his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>December</b>
</p><p>
  <span>When Sonya wakes, one morning in early December, the world is the muted kind of quiet that comes with snow. And, looking out of the window, snow is all she can see, vast dunes of it, coating the garden and the fields beyond. It is so high that Sonya wonders just how they are going to leave the house. She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders and slips downstairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kitchen floor is freezing cold under her bare feet and she hurries to light the stove, to bring some warmth to the place. That same muffled silence is evident here as upstairs, broken only by the quiet shuffling noises that she makes as she goes about building a fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once it is lit, and the room gradually begins to warm, one of Galenka’s kittens, the tabby, pokes her head out from the nest that no one has dared touch. “Hello, you,” Sonya whispers. The kitten mewls softly and then retreats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks as though we will need to dig ourselves out of here,” she hears from behind her. Turning, she sees Mitya, already wrapped up in several layers, an outdoor coat, and what looks to be at least two pairs of gloves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you planning on going somewhere?” Sonya asks in amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rodya wants to build a snowman,” he says, a wry smile creeping across his features. “I, uh, found myself unable to say no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Mitya,” Rodya says, bounding into the kitchen. “Let us go!” Mitya pulls a face that Sonya is fairly sure constitutes a pout (not that he would ever admit to it).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rodya…” he whines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunya is on her way, too, Mitya,” Rodya says. “Surely you do not want to miss out on this.” Then, with a smirk, he leans in and kisses Mitya. When he pulls back, after a long moment, Mitya seems ever so slightly dazed, letting Rodya tug him towards the door with nary a word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you not joining us?” Rodya asks, turning to Sonya with his hand on the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no,” she says, laughing. “I am going to stay nice and warm right here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suit yourself,” Rodya says with a shrug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, why does she get to stay inside when I do not?” Sonya hears Mitya asking as he is pulled into the garden by Rodya. She does not hear Rodya’s response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the window, she watches as they start gathering snow, rolling it into an ever growing ball. “Rodya did not convince you then,” Dunya asks behind her. Sonya glances over at her, tilting her head back. Dunya leans in to press a kiss to her forehead, looping her arms over Sonya’s shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, he did not,” Sonya says. “I do wonder how he got Mitya to agree, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Dunya says darkly. “You do not.” Sonya turns her head and presses a kiss to the inside of Dunya’s elbow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going out as well?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In a moment,” Dunya murmurs, burying her face in Sonya’s hair. A moment turns out to be only a few seconds because it is then that Rodya spots her through the window, waving frantically for her to come outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will have hot tea for you when you return,” Sonya says with a smile, sensing Dunya’s reluctance to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had better,” Dunya says, before opening the door, taking a breath and stepping outside. When Sonya next sees her through the window, she has a snowball hidden behind her back and such a smile on her face that can only mean trouble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonya watches as she approaches Rodya, snowball still concealed, and, with a sudden flick of her arm, lands it right in his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a momentary pause, as though Rodya is still processing the event, and then he is leaning down, a mischievous look on his face and a laugh bubbling from his lips, pressing snow into a ball of his own. Dunya turns and darts away, laughing, as Rodya pursues her. Faintly, Sonya hears her call to Mitya for help, but Mitya raises his hands to emphasise his neutrality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And indoors, observing the whole thing, Sonya thinks she has never been quite so happy.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SHRI (@sunshinejock)</p><p>not beta'ed, please forgive any typos.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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